Paint It Black (21 page)

“Okay,” Ty said. He noticed Louis looking at him and gave him a reticent smile, his hazel eyes dropping to the dock. He went back to the fillet table, bagging the fish in plastic filled with ice. Louis looked for Woody, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“You think these fellows were killed with fillet knives?” Lynch asked.

“We're not sure. We haven't identified the weapon yet, but it's a good possibility.”

Lynch nodded emphatically. “I can see that,” he said. “We have to keep 'em sharp as razors.” He held up his left hand. “Look at this. I was filleting a pompano once and slipped. Lost my pinkie. Sliced it clean off.”

Louis stared at Lynch's callused hand, trying not to think of the defense-wound slash marks on Anthony Quick's hand.

“Captain Lynch,” he said, “what can you tell me about your crew?”

“My crew? Do you—” He stopped. “You guys think someone down here did this?”

“We're just checking all possible leads,” Louis said.

“Tell me about your crewmen. How long have they been with you?”

Lynch looked uneasy. “Well, Ty's been with me, geez, it has to be nearly three years now. Woody . . . let's see. He came on this past November right here.”

“What's both their full names and addresses?”

Lynch gave them to him.

Louis closed the notebook. “Thanks, Captain Lynch.”

“I had a third man,” Lynch said, “but he left a while back.”

“He left? Why?” Louis asked.

Lynch shrugged. “Who knows? These guys, they're like Gypsies. It's a transient business, and we don't ask a lot of questions. The most important thing is just showing up.”

“When did he leave?” Louis asked.

“Oh, two or three weeks ago. Left me short.”

Louis flipped opened the notebook. “Name?”

“Gunther . . . Gunther Mayo.”

“How long did he work for you?”

“He came on last April up in Barnegat Light.”

Louis stopped taking notes. “Barnegat Light, New Jersey?”

Lynch nodded. “Yeah, that's where we go in the summer.” When he saw the look on Louis's face, Lynch added, “Something wrong with that?”

“You split your time between here and Jersey?” Louis asked.

Lynch nodded again. “Winter here, summer up north. We call it following the tuna.”

“Do all the charters here do that?”

“Nope. Just the bigger boats like the
Miss Monica
here.” He waved a hand proudly at the fishing poles stowed behind him. “We go after the big stuff.”

“Do you know where he might have gone?”

“Shit, he could be anywhere from Maine to Key West. That's the circuit.”

“You know anything else about him?” Louis asked. “Where he lives?”

“I'm not sure. There's a lot of seasonal rentals over around Buttonwood Street. You can walk there from here.”

Louis felt his patience drying up fast. “You don't keep records of your employees, Mr. Lynch?”

“Not unless I have to.”

“What about Mayo's vehicle?”

“Don't know. Never saw him drive anything.”

Louis sighed. “Okay, let me ask you this. Did you ever hear Mayo make any racial slurs? Threats against blacks? Anything like that?”

Lynch shook his head. “He didn't say much about anyone or anything. Quiet, moody kind of guy.”

“I don't suppose you'd have a picture of him.”

Lynch started to shake his head, then paused. “You know, I might, I just might. Hold on.”

Lynch disappeared and came back with a stack of photos. He sifted through them and held one out to Louis. “That's him behind the fat guy, holding the hose.”

It was a photo of four tourists standing at the rail of the
Miss Monica,
holding up their catches. Mayo was visible in the background, a blur of profile and dark hair worn in a ponytail.

“Can I see the others?” Louis asked, nodding at the stack in Lynch's hand.

“You can have them,” Lynch said, handing them over. “These are just extras the tourists didn't buy.”

Louis stuck the photos in his pocket. His fingers closed around a business card and he pulled it out. It was one of Farentino's FBI cards on which she had scribbled the Sereno Key Police Department number. He printed his own name on the back and handed it to Lynch.

“Call me if you think of anything else or if Mayo shows up,” Louis said.

Lynch looked at the card. “Wow . . . FBI.”

Louis turned to leave. His eyes locked on the fishing gear now stowed neatly on the aftdeck. A question floated into his mind, but he knew no matter how he asked it, it would sound stupid. What the hell.

“Captain Lynch?”

The captain turned back to him.

“Do you ever have reason to use guns when you fish?”

“What?”

“Do you ever use a shotgun onboard?”

For a moment, Lynch looked at him like he was nuts; then he held up a hand. “Hang on.”

He went below and when he came back on deck, he was holding a slender metal pole about six feet long. Louis instantly knew it was the pole Roscoe Webb had seen.

“What is it?” he asked Lynch.

“A bang stick. We use it on sharks mainly.”

Louis came forward and gingerly took the pole.

“It ain't loaded,” Lynch said.

“How—”

Lynch pointed to a cylinder on the top. “You load the shell in here and it kind of sits cocked on a spring device that is triggered by touching the tip to the target. In our case, the shark.” He pointed to a pin. “That's the safety pin. Keeps you from shooting yourself in the foot.”

“It takes a shotgun shell?” Louis asked.

“Standard variety.”

“What about blanks?”

Lynch frowned. “Well, I heard of alligator hunters using blanks 'cause they don't want the hides messed up. But a blank would only stun a shark.”

“Or a man,” Louis said, staring at the pole's lethal tip. “Do all of your crewmen have one of these things?”

Lynch shook his head. “No need to. Most boats just keep one onboard.”

“Can I borrow this?” Louis asked.

Lynch shrugged. “Sure, we don't use them much down here. But bring it back, okay? We need it for up North.”

Louis heard a car horn and looked to the lot. Wainwright was waiting in the squad car. Louis took one last look around the docks. For the first time, he felt a sense of progress. They had a fresh suspect. They had a weapon. Now all they had to do was put together the
why
behind it.

The shrieks of seagulls drew his eye back to the
Miss Monica
. Ty was washing down the cleaning bench, tossing the fish guts into the water. The gulls swarmed on them, screaming.

When they got back to the office, Candy was waiting for them. Wainwright took one look at his officer's face and asked, “Now what?”

“There's a woman waiting to see you.”

“About what?”

Candy was staring at the bang stick in Louis's hand. “She says she might know who the homeless man is. I put her in your office, Chief.”

Wainwright went into the office. Louis detoured to pick up the case file and joined him. The woman was sitting in a chair in front of Wainwright's desk and turned to look as they came in. She was about twenty-five, a pretty woman in a green business suit, with close-cropped black hair, gold earrings, and the same tawny-toned skin as the homeless man. Her large brown eyes went expectantly from Wainwright to Louis.

Wainwright extended his hand. “I'm Sheriff Wainwright. You're here about a possible identification?”

She took his hand, nodding. “My father,” she said softly.

Wainwright glanced back at Louis. Louis set the bang stick against a cabinet and came forward.

“I'm June Childers,” she said. “My father's name is Harold. Is he—” She paused, seeing the look on Wainwright's face. Her eyes filled with tears.

Wainwright pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, saw it was stained, and wadded it up. Louis rose, went to the bathroom, and came back with some tissues. Shit, he prayed June Childers wouldn't lose it like Anita Quick did. He couldn't stand another one.

But June Childers's eyes were dry and she managed to give Louis a small smile as she took the Kleenex. “I saw an article in the
Palm Beach Post
,” she said. “I live over in West Palm.” She hesitated. “It said you had a man here with a tattoo of a dog on his arm.”

“There's also a word.” Wainwright said. “Can you tell us what it was?”

“Bosco,” she said softly.

Wainwright glanced over at Louis. He rose and went to the watercooler. For a long time, it was quiet in the room.

Then Wainwright spoke, without turning. “Miss Childers, did your father have any other identifying marks?”

She turned to look at Wainwright. So did Louis. Other identifying marks? Wainwright knew there were none except the tattoo. What was going on here?

“No,” she said.

Wainwright filled a Dixie cup and slowly took a drink. He stood there, sipping and staring at the wall. June Childers looked back at Louis, her eyes questioning. Louis pulled a photo out of the file.

“Is this the tattoo?” he asked.

The photo showed only a forearm with a ruler lying next to it, but something changed in June Childers's eyes as she stared at it.

“It was our dog's name,” she whispered. “Bosco . . . you know, like that chocolate stuff kids drink.” Her eyes welled again.

Louis looked up at Wainwright. There were still routine questions that needed to be asked, but Wainwright was just standing there, staring at the wall.

“Dan—” Louis said.

Wainwright looked at him, as if coming out of a trance. “Let me know when you're done,” he said. He tossed the cup in the trash and left, closing the door behind him. Louis stared at the door in disbelief for a moment.

Shit. Not again.

For a second, he considered going after Wainwright. But he turned back to June Childers. She wasn't crying, but she still had the spent look of someone who had just come to the end of a long and wearisome journey.

“Miss Childers, do you know where your father was living?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I haven't seen him in almost ten years,” she said softly. “We—my brother Billy and I—we lost track of him. He wasn't himself after Mama died and we looked, but we lost . . .” Her eyes welled but she pulled in a deep breath, keeping her emotions inside.

“He was from West Palm Beach?”

She shook her head. “We grew up in Clewiston, west of there.”

“Why do you think he came over here?” Louis asked gently.

“When we were kids, he used to bring us here,” she said. “Daddy loved it here. He loved the water.”

“If you could, can you please supply us with any other records you have . . . dental or medical records, maybe?”

She nodded.

Louis hesitated, not knowing what else to ask. There was nothing she could really help them with. She pulled in a deep breath and looked at him.

“Is there something I have to do . . . somewhere?” she asked.

He shook his head. “It's not necessary to identify him in person.” He saw the next question in her eyes. “I think it's better if you don't see him. But I'll take you there if you want.”

For a second, she just looked at him. “I understand,” she said softly, looking down at the wad of tissue in her hands. She rose slowly and slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder.

“Is there someplace I can make a call?” she asked.

“My brother wanted to know.”

Louis nodded to the phone on the table. “Just dial nine. I'll be outside if you need anything.”

She gave him a small smile and held out her hand. “Thank you, Officer—”

“Kincaid,” he said, taking her hand.

He left, taking the case file with him. Wainwright wasn't in the outer office. Louis went to the conference room. The door was ajar.

Wainwright was standing at the bulletin board, looking at the photos of Tatum and Quick.

“Dan?”

Wainwright didn't move.

Louis came closer. “Dan, what happened back there?”

Wainwright turned. “Let's walk over to the Flamingo. I'll buy you a beer.”

 

 

The bar was nearly deserted, just a few locals draped on the bar and a family eating burgers at one of the wooden tables. A hockey game was on the TV above the grill, sound turned off. “Sea of Love” was playing on the jukebox. Louis watched the Red Wings forward glide across the ice in perfect sync with the song.

Louis waited until the waitress took their order, then leveled his eyes at Wainwright.

“Okay, what?”

Wainwright was looking at the family. “This is a nice place,” he said softly.

Louis started to say something, but decided he needed to stay quiet.

“Sereno Key,” Wainwright said, “it's a nice place.”

Wainwright fell silent again, his eyes drifting up to the TV and finally back to Louis. “I knew the moment I saw this place, it was where I needed to be.”

“My foster mother thinks everyone has a place like that,” Louis said.

Wainwright nodded slightly. “When I retired from the bureau, I stayed in Detroit for a while. But I knew I needed to find someplace else. I heard about the chief's opening here and I looked up the town in the atlas. I saw this little green island sitting in all that blue water, and I fired off my letter.”

The waitress brought their beers, some fries, and a bucket of steamed shrimp. Wainwright picked out a shrimp and began to slowly peel off the shell.

“Dan, what does—”

“I know. You want to know what this has to do with what went on back there with June Childers.”

“And Anita Quick,” Louis added.

Wainwright held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. He ate the shrimp and took a drink of his beer.

“I was with the bureau for eighteen years.”

“I know. The Office of Professional Responsibility,” Louis said.

Wainwright paused. “You'd like to know exactly what that is, wouldn't you?”

Louis took a swig of beer, then nodded.

“OPR is an inspection team that evaluates misconduct and efficiency problems, kind of an internal affairs department,” he said. “It was put together as a response to all the corruption in the early years. Lot of the guys were there on temporary assignments.” He gave a wan smile. “We called ourselves rent-a-goons.”

Louis couldn't decide who felt more ill at ease, he himself or Wainwright.

“You said it was temporary?” Louis said.

Wainwright nodded. He pushed the bucket toward Louis but Louis shook his head.

“You're missing a treat here,” Wainwright said.

“They look too much like crawfish.”

Wainwright pulled the bucket back and peeled another shrimp, chewing it slowly.

“My first real assignment was as a field agent working out of Jackson, Michigan.”

“Jackson? That's farm country,” Louis said.

“It was a satellite office. The bureau has hundreds of them in small towns. They're called RAs—resident agencies.”

“What the hell do FBI agents do in places like Jackson?”

“Not much,” Wainwright said. “I had a few bank robberies and one custodial kidnapping, but those years were pretty quiet at first.”

Louis picked at his fries.

“Then in 1973 a girl was murdered in Albion, a town nearby,” Wainwright said. “Everyone in that town knew who did it—a snot-nosed college kid named Carson. But no one seemed to want to prosecute one of the town's favorite sons.”

Wainwright paused to take a drink. “Then another girl turned up dead. Both the mothers were begging me to step in. Because the girls appeared to be forcibly taken, I was able to call it a kidnapping and took it over.”

“Did you catch Carson?”

“Yeah, after he killed a third time.” Wainwright pushed the shrimp bucket away and finished his beer.

Louis signaled the waitress for another round.

“I got lucky in that case, Louis,” Wainwright said, “made a few right turns here and there. Before I knew it, I was being asked to advise on other similiar cases. This was before anyone really knew much about serial murders. Shit, we just called them multiples in those days.”

He paused. “I worked nine or ten cases. Then we caught a case in seventy-eight near Adrian. Ever heard of the Raisin River Killings?”

Louis sat upright. “Harlan Skeen?”

Wainwright nodded, his eyes drifting. “Skeen raped and murdered twelve little girls. We found the first body in April of seventy-eight. The second one turned up around July Fourth. By Thanksgiving, we had found four.”

The waitress put the fresh beers in front of them. Wainwright took a drink before he went on.

“I was assigned to the task force. We put everything humanly possible into that case for nine months.”

Louis waited. It was a full minute before Wainwright went on.

“Toward the end of winter, we had another girl go missing,” he said. “A week later, we finally got a break. Someone saw a man taking a girl into his car and got a license number. That night, he was spotted at a traffic light and ran. We chased the fucker into a park.” Wainwright shook his head. “I had this wild idea that maybe we'd get lucky, that maybe we'd find this kid alive.”

Wainwright stopped again.

“What happened?” Louis prodded.

“We cornered Skeen in the bathroom.” Wainwright took a drink of beer. “I had to shoot him.”

The flatness in Wainwright's eyes was chilling. “What about the girl?” Louis asked.

“We found her when we popped his trunk. She was dead.”

Louis looked away.

“The other bodies turned up one by one when the snow started melting. I was called out for every single one.” He paused. “Then, one Saturday afternoon, I got the call again. I didn't want to go because my kid had a basketball game, but I went. It was raining, windy, still cold like it can be in April. I drove down to Adrian, out to the woods. I parked at the bottom of the hill with all the other units.”

Wainwright stopped, staring at this hands, clasped around the sweating beer bottle.

“I got out and looked up the hill. It was foggy and all I could see was that damn yellow tape flapping in the wind.” He looked up at Louis. “Something happened. I couldn't go up. I just couldn't go up there and look at one more of those damn little bones.”

A burst of laughter drifted over from the family at the next table.

Wainwright cleared his throat. “The next day I asked to be reassigned. They sent me to OPR.”

His blue eyes remained locked on Louis for a moment; then he raised the bottle to his lips. He closed his eyes as he drank. When he finally put the bottle down, it was empty.

“Almost every agent I worked with paid a price in some way,” he said. “Ulcers, heart scares, divorce. It's not so much dealing with the evil as what the evil leaves behind.”

“Anita Quick and June Childers,” Louis said quietly.

Wainwright nodded slowly. “The families,” he said. “That was the worst part for me, dealing with the families.”

They fell quiet.

“Dan, this thing with you and Farentino—”

“What about it?”

“You want me to talk to her, try to smooth things over?”

“Why?”

“Because we have to work together,” Louis said.

Wainwright picked at the Bud label. “Do what you think is necessary,” he said.

Louis wanted to say more, but he could tell from Wainwright's eyes that the subject was closed.

The bartender ambled over to the jukebox. A few seconds later, the bar filled up with the sound of Frankie Goes to Hollywood singing “Relax.”

Wainwright was staring at the window. It was raining lightly, the neon Bud sign forming red streaks on the glass. Wainwright looked back at Louis.

“What the fuck is this song about?” he asked.

“Jerking off,” Louis said.

Wainwright shook his head. “Man, I'm getting old.” He stood up, tossing a twenty on the table. “Let's get out of here.”